


Cold Chips

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'How about an imagine where the Beatles help the reader deal with her bipolar depression after she has an awful day?'Sure can!





	Cold Chips

George looks around and up at you as you storm up the stairs.

“Hey, love, what’s the matter?”

You ignore him; you can’t deal with it right now. You were hoping nobody would be in your house, but of course, Geo is, and you bet he’s got someone with him – most likely Paul.

“ _(Y/N)!_ ”

You shut your day and fall face-first onto the bed; you don’t cry. You’re too tired, you’re too worn-out and exhausted from a day spent waging a pitched battle against yourself, and you just don’t want to be awake right now. You want to sleep – maybe then, when you wake up, you’ll have the energy to cry.

“(Y/N)?”

“Geo, no offence, but I just want to be alone,” you say, muffled, into the bedclothes, and you hear no movement by the door. “Geo, please. I am not… happy, today. I am not well.” He should remember what that means – you hope.

“…do you want a cup of tea?” he asks, after a moment. “‘cause I really don’t wanna leave yeh alone, like.” You laugh hysterically into the bedding for a moment, and then look up at him, makeup smeared across your face. You must look like the wild woman of the woods.

“Yeah. You know what, Geo? I would love a cuppa.”

“Gotcha.” He says no more, just ambling off downstairs, and you flip over, lying on your back; you must tap into some energy pocket you didn’t know you had, because you start crying, and praying Geo doesn’t come back up and see this mess you are right now.

He doesn’t. But after about ten minutes, someone else does.

“‘ey, ‘ey, what’s all this about?”

“John?” you whisper, and he comes in, sitting next to you on the bed.

“C’mon, love, yer all snotty and gross. Sit up,” he says gently, and you do so. “Geo gave us a call, he’s making a cuppa now.”

“Oh, he didn’t…” John hands you his handkerchief and you blow your nose forlornly.

“He bloody did, and yeh know what? We’re all comin’ around. We can sit downstairs or summat but we don’t want yeh alone,” he says, reprimanding, and then Ringo is at your doorway. You smile at him, and then he has his arms around you and you sink into his broad chest, eyes closing.

“Aww, poor chuck,” he clucks at you. “John, did yeh make her cry?”

“Shut yer face.” John strokes your bad. “Nah, not havin’ this, not havin’ our girl sad, are we?” You shake your head at him, and he cuddles you. “Aww, look at that, she’s still sassin’ us…”

“ _I brought chips!_ ” That’s Macca’s bright tone from downstairs, you know it, and you smile a little.

“See, all it takes is chips and she’s cheerful again. C’mon, love, we’re all gonna go eat some chips an’ then we’ll talk about yer day, how about that.” Ringo squeezes you again as he speaks, and you nod; John strokes your hair again, and you hug him too.

“ _Chips are gettin’ cold_!”

“Now we better get down, or Paulie’ll have eaten ‘em all,” Ringo says, and you laugh through the tears that are still trickling down your face.


End file.
